“Excuse me?” she heard Cordelia shout.
Buffy almost turned around. Cordy wasn’t getting anywhere and it’d be better all around if they just left without causing any trouble. But that poor guy in the jester costume had seemed so . . . sad. Buffy went on, following the sound of tinkling bells.
Roland, the jester, stepped into the alley with an armload of purple fabric. It was King Richard’s robe.
He saw Buffy and for a moment he stood frozen, staring at her. He looked sadly comical in his jester’s costume minus the hat. Then he unfurled the robe and hung it over a clothesline. He picked up a thick wooden stick and started whacking it against the robe, beating the dust from the garment. His movements were awkward and slow, as if he were exhausted.
Buffy came up beside him. For a moment she silently watched. Nice curly brown hair, big brown eyes. The pieces were there for good-looking, but there was something really wrong with this guy. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it was as if his skin didn’t fit right, or something. He almost looked old, except that he didn’t. Maybe it was the way he squinted, or his clumsiness as he slammed the stick against the robe. Dust rose in a little cloud, and Buffy coughed into her hand. He looked at her questioningly and set down the stick.
“We used to think I was allergic to house dust,” she told him. “Then my parents went out of town for two weeks. So, just as an experiment, I let that darn dust pile right up. All in the name of science, you understand. I still had a runny nose. Turned out it was our cat.”
She expected at least a polite smile. She was disappointed. He looked at her as if she were a creature from another planet. She almost said, “Hey, how about them cattle mutilations?”
Instead she said, “When they throw you around like that, does it hurt?”
To her unpleasant surprise and acute discomfort, he flinched, his brown eyes growing distant, and he lowered his head and said, “Yes.”
“Then, um, why?”
“There’s not much else to be done.”
Hmm. Interesting answer. She put her hand on her hip and said, “Well, food service is always a field loaded with advancement. And you get all the free hairnets you want.”
He still didn’t crack a smile. He only stared at her with kind, sad eyes. Hurt eyes.
“I’m Buffy.” She held out her hand.
He didn’t shake with her. “Roland.”
“Summers,” she added.
Silence.
O-kay. She gestured to the cloak. “So, is he your dad?”
Roland’s eyes jittered nervously left, right. He gave his head a tiny shake and said, “I need to finish.”
“Can I help?”
He looked at her very oddly. And then suddenly it occurred to her: what if he was a runaway?
“Hey, listen,” she said.
“Roland!”
Roland jumped a mile. It was King Richard, and he sounded pissed.
“Lad, answer if you know what’s best for you!”
Roland stiffened. Buffy reached out a comforting hand but he actually stepped away from her. She figured he was embarrassed—more than once, she had humiliated a guy by helping him out, keeping him from getting pummeled or worse. It was this guy code thing that it was better to get the crap knocked out of you than have someone, anyone, most especially a girl, save you from that fate. That was something she did not get, except that it had happened enough times for her to turn her back when requested.
And from what she could tell, Roland was making the request.
“Yeah.” She cleared her throat and lifted her hand in farewell. “It’s been . . . what it’s been.” She turned to go.
“Goodbye,” he said, so faintly that for a moment she wasn’t sure he’d spoken. “Godspeed.”
She turned back. His eyes were wide and frightened.
“You don’t have to stay,” she said in a rush, but then the clomp of boots told her that His Royal Painness was about to make his entrance.
She hurried back down to the costume shop, where the milky-eyed crone of a shopkeeper was bitterly muttering, “And here is your copy.”
“Thank you,” Cordelia said crisply. In triumph, she displayed her charge card credit slip for Buffy to see and admire. “Let’s go.”
“Trashed,” Oz confirmed, as he slid back out from under Giles’s car. He wiped his hands on the newspaper Willow offered him, wadded it up, and kept it. Some guys were thoughtful that way. Other guys would just hand you back the yucky newspaper like they figured you wanted to keep it as a memento.
Oz added, “I don’t know how you drove it back over here.”
“He’s used to driving it thrashed,” Xander said. He frowned slightly. “Where are our other lovely wenches?”
The parking lot wasn’t as crowded as when they’d arrived. Now it looked more like what it actually was: a stretch of hard-packed dirt that had once been a field. Giles’s car was tucked in between a Jeep Cherokee and a pair of ancient Harleys with big-breasted barbarian women painted on the side. Xander had become an instant art critic when they’d passed the motorcycles.
Willow looked back at the Faire. Seen at a distance like this, it looked kind of puny and tacky. Of course, they hadn’t seen the Shakespeare scenes, or gone to the lute concert. Those might have been really cool. But all in all, she was glad they were leaving.
“Do you have triple A?” Angel asked. “You can call for a tow.”
Not for the first time, Willow found it hard to really accept all that had happened since she had met Buffy. Evil curses, monsters, trips to hell and back, and all that Romanian! But weirdest of all maybe was that Angel, who had lived in the 1750s, could stand there so calmly and talk about the auto club. It was moments like this she had to pinch herself.
Then Oz squeezed her hand. Maybe that was weirder, a cool guy like the lead guitarist of the Dingoes thinking she was cool.
Oz grinned as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. Willow wouldn’t have been surprised. He could turn into a werewolf, so maybe he could read minds, too.
Then Buffy and Cordelia appeared, walking along as if they were the best of friends, and Willow knew that that took the weirdness prize, hands down.
Yes. Definitely.
The two approached, and Giles said, “Good. Let’s be off, then. Buffy, you should patrol.”
“Giles—” Buffy began.
“I’d like you to check out the mutiliations first, if you don’t mind.”
“Morbid much?” Cordelia asked.
“Cordelia, Buffy is the Slayer. Unsavory as these attacks may be, it’s her responsibility to investigate them.”
“I’ll go with you,” Angel said.
“Ah,” Giles said, then clamped his mouth shut. There was an awkward moment. Willow caught Buffy’s irritation, and wondered at it. She might be the Slayer, but Willow thought she ought to cut the Watcher some slack. They were all a little gun-shy around Angel.
Angel looked to Buffy, clearly oblivous to Giles’s anxiety and very eager to be off. Willow felt so sorry for them. Things certainly weren’t working out as they had planned. They tried to make the best of it, but there wasn’t much left to work with. Oz, well, that was happening pretty well. Three nights of werewolf, twenty-seven of pure guy. It was a good percentage.
“Yeah, about that going thing,” Xander drawled. “Be sure to take a cross or two, Buff. Maybe spray on some eau de garlique.”
“We don’t think it’s vampires, Xander,” Giles said.
“I know that,” Xander replied, gazing straight at Angel.
Buffy shot him a look. Xander didn’t flinch. He, of all of them, was the most blatantly not okay with the A-man, and on occasion he didn’t mind letting other people—including Buffy—know it.
However, it was obvious that everyone including Xander wanted to get away from the Faire. Willow was sorry. It seemed like every fun thing in town eventually became the negative fun thing.
It was Cordelia who seconded the motion. “Yeah,
okay, let’s get out of here. This bunch is not exactly high on the normal chart. How new, how different, for an excursion with Buffy. I just know someone will try to kill at least one of us—probably me—before the weekend’s over.”
“We can hope,” Xander zinged, ducking. But Cordelia just rolled her eyes and sighed.
“What time is it, babe?” Oz asked Willow gently.
“Time?” she asked, then jumped. “Oh!” She grabbed Xander’s wrist. “When did you get this watch? What happened to Tweety? Oh, my gosh! Oz, I’ve got fifteen minutes.”
Oz nodded. “We can make it, if you promise not to tell your parents how fast I drove.” He put his arm around her and said to the others, “We have to book.”
Giles said, “Ah, speaking of which. Cordelia, would you mind very much giving me a lift to the library? I’ll call there for my tow.”
Looking a bit confused, she reached into her purse. “You can use my cell phone. They’ll take you right home.”
“Yes, well, there are a few books I need,” he said.
“Oh. Books. Of course. I get it now.” She looked at Xander, who shrugged.
“I don’t care where we go, Cor, as long as it’s away from here.”
“Well, then,” Giles said, punctuating their decision and their unease. He glanced at Buffy. “I should think a bit of alacrity’s required regarding the cattle.”
It was a capitulation about Angel’s going with her, but Willow wasn’t certain that Buffy realized it. Or cared.
Instead Buffy simply stared at him.
The Watcher translated, “Hurry. They’re certain to move the carcasses tonight.”
“Now that you guys are done with your planning, maybe I can make the point I’ve been saving for the last ten minutes. There’s this boy,” Buffy said. “I think they’re abusing him and . . .”
“We can always come back. The Faire will be here for quite a while.” Giles took off his glasses. “Unfortunately.”
“Maybe it’ll disappear,” Willow murmured, though no one but Oz heard her. He gave her hand a tug.
“Something wicked,” Oz said, “this way has come.”
Giles nodded at him. “Indeed, Oz, I’m afraid you’re right. And nicely put, I must say. It’s a pleasure to know that one of you reads.”
“Hey,” Willow protested. “I know my Bradbury, too.” She lifted her chin. “Something Wicked This Way Comes. About a spooky . . .” She looked back over her shoulder. “Carnival,” she finished weakly.
“But this isn’t that,” Oz said profoundly, comforting her. “Spooky, well, yeah. But carnival, no. See?”
Willow smiled. “Si,” she agreed.
Staring into the darkness in Weatherly Park, Shock searched for Treasure. He heard a noise, footsteps maybe. Or the pitter-patter of little animal feet. He whispered, “Treasure?”
In a clearing in the forest:
The first shimmering of the dark.
The soft laughter of the damned.
Dogs stopped their barking, lay down, whimpered. Cats arched in fear and hissed at shadows. Babies awoke, inconsolable.
And the little town that sat upon the mouth of hell gasped in fear.
Chapter 5
IN THE RURAL OUTSKIRTS OF SUNNYDALE, HIGHER IN elevation than the town itself, along the northeastern side of Route 17, lay some pasture land abutting the entrance to the Los Viejos National Forest. The forest was composed primarily of evergreens, and there were huge granite boulders that rose in the sky like cliff dwellings. As it was out of the way, it wasn’t on Buffy’s normal patrol route. So she didn’t know the terrain, and that did nothing to relieve the tension that had grown during the Renaissance Faire.
Level with the pasture land, she and Angel crouched behind some manzanita bushes as the moon shone down on a gulley about twenty feet away. In the dry wash lay three dark shapes—the dead cows. Yellow police tape had been stretched between some trees, but otherwise, it appeared the authorities had quit the scene. Buffy was surprised, and she wasn’t quite ready to believe it.
So they stayed hidden, hunkered down so closely together that Angel’s thigh rubbed against hers. Buffy’s muscles tightened and she began to lose her balance. She had to steady herself against him.
He put his hand over hers and pointed.
Sure enough, someone with a flashlight fanned the beam over the three stiff, dead forms, then in the immediate area surrounding them, then moved toward the street.
They heard the sound of a motor starting. On the two-lane road to their right, red and blue lights strobed and a police car pulled away.
“They’ll probably be back soon. With a tractor to haul the carcasses away, something like that,” Buffy guessed.
Angel nodded. “So we go for it?”
“We go for it.”
She moved with purpose. One thing she had learned about being the Slayer: when you were walking among the wicked, you had to keep your mind on two things: destruction, and survival.
As they covered ground, Buffy said softly, “Be careful. There might be small animal bodies around here.” Then she caught herself, half-smiled, and said, “But I guess you would be able to smell them.”
“Yes,” he said frankly, “I would.”
They crab-walked closer to the cattle. Then Angel frowned and whispered, “Did you hear that?” When she shook her head, he persisted, “That crying? No. It’s dogs. They’re howling.”
She listened for a few seconds. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Really? I swear, Buffy, they’re so loud they could wake . . .” He trailed off and dropped his gaze.
“The dead,” she finished for him.
They looked at each other. He smiled his sad smile, the one that reminded her of everything she had once hoped they could have, but now never would.
“You have such a way with words,” he said.
“So my English teacher tells me,” she replied. “Only, it’s the wrong way.”
“I haven’t been to school in over two hundred years. Sat in classes, I mean. Before I was changed, I wasn’t much in the book-learning department either.”
“We have so much in common,” she flirted. Uselessly.
Somewhere nearby, a twig snapped. Buffy tensed, glanced at Angel. He had heard it, too.
She gestured to stay still. They had patrolled together so much that such a precaution was unnecessary, but she was used to being in charge, telling anyone with her—the Slayerettes, especially—what to do.
Another snap. Buffy watched Angel, whose head was turned slightly in the direction of the sound. As if he knew she was looking at him, he reached out his hand. Without hesitation, she took one of her stakes from her belt and placed it firmly in his grasp. Swiftly, she got one out for herself.
Angel jerked again and looked at her. She stared back at him. Evidently he had heard something else that she couldn’t.
Then something small leaped onto Buffy’s back and bit her, hard. She shrieked in surprise and instinctively rolled over to crush the thing just as another one landed on her shoulder. Sharp claws or teeth broke the skin as she grabbed at her attacker, catching at it and pulling it away from her body. Her blouse sleeve tore away with it, and it waved the bloody fabric in a tiny, mottled fist, its hands ending in miniature, curved talons.
It was some kind of weird, misshapen creature that vaguely resembled a human, with a head, arms, and legs, only its skin was a mottled, graveyard green and gray, its eyes glowed red and blank, like a mole’s, and its ears were batlike, long and pointed. Her mind flashed to a character she’d seen in old Spider-Man cartoons: Goblin-man or something.
Then teeth bit into her flesh, and Buffy cursed loudly and batted another of the things from her calf. The one she held in her hand wore some kind of crudely woven clothing, and as she stared at it, it shrieked and struggled to attack her, its teeth clacking wildly.
“Yeow,” Buffy said, amazed.
“Buffy!”
Angel was beside her in an instant. S
he showed him the creature, keeping it a good arm’s length from both of them as it flailed and slashed at her hands with its talons. Then it threw back its head and shrieked and cackled at the same time like a complete lunatic.
“Is that what you heard?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Not at all.” He gestured for her to give him the creature, but she kept hold of it.
“He’s happiest here,” she said.
Then suddenly, another of the creatures flew through the air. And another. They were dropping from the trees and flinging themselves through the air from the undergrowth. Buffy kicked one away at the same time she ripped another one off her back. Then her chest.
Angel was faring no better, waving his arms as at least a dozen of them clung to him, biting and tearing at his duster with their knifelike talons. Despite his obvious pain, he managed to yank one of the creatures off. Two, three more of the creatures took its place.
More than a dozen of them bit and clawed at Buffy, all over her body, as she struggled, overpowered, trying to keep her mind clear. Destruction. Survival.
She kicked at them, pulled at them, fell into a forward roll and then flipped back up to a standing position. Maybe one dropped off, while six took advantage of her contact with the ground and leaped aboard.
They were drawing blood, and they were causing damage both to her body and her hot velvet tank top and leather pants.
She staggered toward Angel, flailing as if she were on fire, until she reached him. With both hands, she tore one of the creatures off him, stomped it, made a fist and smashed another one in the head as she snapkicked one more off Angel’s calf.
Angel began to attack the creatures on Buffy. Soundlessly they worked at freeing each other. Incredibly, the creatures never stopped their maniacal laughter and screaming even as Buffy and Angel worked their way through them.
More of the creatures descended on the pair, and still more, until they were completely surrounded. There might have been a hundred.
Buffy was slashed and torn, and as she assessed the damage, she realized that if she couldn’t figure out some way to stop them, they just might kill her.
CHILD of the HUNT Page 9
